To Fall From the Sun
by Rachel-Jane Kensington
Summary: They found that some folks grew to like the target. And when they got the green light, they couldn't pull... Tim/OFC, rated M for war violence, language and adult themes.
1. On To The Next One

**Prologue: On To The Next One**

_And we are here as on a darkening plain  
__Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,  
__Where ignorant armies clash by night.  
_- 'Dover Beach' by Matthew Arnold

Thursday April 23, 2009 Kandahar Province, Afghanistan 0800 Hours

Things didn't change much in the field. Tour after tour, it was all the same. Get your objective. Map a route. Drop-off. Stalk. Set-up your position. Determine an escape route. Spot the target, get a range on it, read the wind. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Wait…

Fire. Get the fuck out of there. After you get a shower and some food, they sit you down to give you all the intel on your next objective so you can walk back out under that murderous sun and jump through the hoops all over again. The only thing that ever changes are the targets. And even those get pretty monotonous after a while. Helicopter engines. Transformers. Supply shipments. People. Though those are pretty rare. The whole point is to save as many lives as possible. Force the enemy into unexpected delays, buy the guys on the line some time.

But there exists one tiny moment in between the grind of routine and high-tailing back to CP. A moment where Tim could almost feel himself become the rifle in his hands. Where his eyes knew where the bullet had to go, knew the green light was about to come, could feel it coming through the radio waves. One little moment bursting with adrenaline when he knew with absolute certainty he was going to hit his objective. And then he did. And the high was like nothing else in the world. It was better than sex or booze or drugs or even buying a brand new car. It was what kept him coming back.

Laying in the dirt for days under a sun that seemed to want him dead just as much as any insurgent. Scorpions crawling up his pant legs. Torturous boredom that bordered on cruel and unusual. Army rations. Never being able to sleep in his own bed. All of it was worth it for that one, small moment because the high lasted for days. Which was good, because that's usually how long he was out in the field anyway.

So that morning, when he got the usual 'Report to Battalion for orders.', he figured it was just going to be more of the same. He never expected what was coming next. Didn't for a second see it coming.

"Where do you think we're going?" Jake, turns to look at him as they walk down the hallway. As Tim's spotter, his eyes in the field, there are very few places the two don't go together while on tour. They get the same intel, they track the same targets, they depend on each other to get the job done and to survive. Living and eating and working together, it feels as though they outgrew the friendship bubble ages ago. They're more like family, or if possible, something even closer. It's the kind of relationship only war can forge.

"I dunno," Tim shrugs, wondering if the décor at HQ could get any more institutional. "Hopefully someplace with lots of shade."

"Well," Chuckling, Jake grabs the door handle, "I guess that takes Afghanistan off the list."

Before Tim can get half a smirk over his shoulder, he's being ordered to sit and handed a packet. Across the screen of a small laptop near the end of the table, a blond woman with her hair up in a tight chignon nods at them.

"Men, this is Agent Compton." Tim's CO tells them in a gruff voice. It's obvious he's not thrilled about having to team up with a woman, especially one who works for the CIA. "The Agency has some work for you, she'll be giving you the specs."

"Gentlemen," She looks both men in the eyes and Tim figures if she just pulled out whatever stick was up her ass, she'd be really hot. But as it stands… "I'm sure this isn't the type of briefing you're accustomed to. I'll try to make this as quick and easy as possible so you can get on with doing your job."

On the screen her image disappears and is replaced with a few pictures of another woman. A rather unflattering badge I.D. A fuzzy security camera still. A candid profile of her crossing some street in what looks like Germany or Amsterdam. Someplace clean and democratic and urban. Someplace quite the opposite of Afghanistan.

"This is Agent Jillian Thomas. She's been with us for a few years and is one of the best field agents we have."

The mere sight of her is both unsettling and confusing. She could easily pass for an Afghani civilian, even without the traditional _burqa_. Lost in a sea of them at market or packed onto a public bus, it would be near impossible to pick her out. But if Tim had learned anything from the two and half tours of duty under his belt, it was that absolutes like 'impossible' don't exist. There's always a way to get things done, he just has to be good enough at his job to find it.

"I'm sorry,"- Holding up a hand, Tim stops Agent Compton as he continues to inspect the file in his hands. "Jillian…_Thomas_?"

There's no way in hell. That's the most apple pie baking, pom-pom waving, white-bread name he's heard since he left the States. He wasn't just going to sit back and let the CIA order him around without giving him concrete intel.

"…Yes?" Compton fails to look very amused with his interruption.

"Is there some sort of…back story here that we should be made aware of?" Frowning and shaking his head, Tim continues to flip through his file. It consists of little more than copies of the pictures that had appeared on the screen. Her height, weight, DOB, 'name'. By far the least amount of information he'd ever been given about a target. Speaking of which, why did the CIA want him to put a bullet in one of their own people in the first place?

"If by back story you mean code name, then: no." Compton offers, her tone as dry as the look on her face. "But if you're as good as we've been told you are then you should be able to figure out everything you need to know from watching her."

"So, this is just reconnaissance?" The cadence of Jake's voice is slightly disappointed. There's far less of a need for partners in the field with pure observation. He would be around of course, to watch Tim's back. But they would be separated and communication would be strained at best. It was always more stressful that way, the margin of error stretched near its limit.

"_Strict _reconnaissance." The Agent on the screen stressed, "For now. She was sent in to help negotiate terms with one of the politicians living in Herat. Dr. Hamid Nejrabi. His intel for guaranteed relocation and protection."

A picture of him replaced Compton on the screen, beside which appeared a general list of specs. Name, DOB, position in Afghanistan's House of Representatives, the Wolesi Jirga, pictures of his residence and family. From the screen he came off as any regular joe to Tim. A wife, two kids, stressful but well-paying job. He could've been the guy next door back home. But here, even turning a blind eye could leave the blood of a thousand people on a man's hands.

"We can't directly link him to the Taliban but we know he was allowing opium sales to go unchecked in his district, the profits of which, we're all aware, are used to line the pockets of insurgents in the area. Lately Jill's been spending more time around his home. She goes off the grid, she drops her wires, she avoids the issue with her handlers. We just need to know what we're dealing with."

"Um, one last question…" Raising his hand once more, Tim continues to frown at the pictures a moment longer before looking to Compton's satellite feed.

"Yes?" She drawls, unaccustomed to answering for her orders to almost anyone, let alone a Private-First-Class in the Army.

"Why do you want us? Isn't the agency better equipped to track one of their own?" He's never trusted the CIA much. After having to watch his friends die trying to clean up the Agency's (many) messes in the War on Terror, he sure as hell isn't about to start any time soon.

"Jillian is well-liked at the Agency. She's good at what she does and if you're out in the field, she's the one you'd want spotting you." Compton shrugs, smiling a little, clearly proud of the woman upon whose back she was now painting a target. "I can't risk the quality of my intel being compromised because one of my agents doesn't want to get their friend in trouble."

Satisfied, Tim nods slowly, looking back down at the pictures again. He's glad there won't be bullets involved any time soon. As much as he loves his work, a break from the mental stress of waiting on edge for a green light every second of every hour is much needed.

Across the table, his CO turns to look at both men. He doesn't seem to excited, but there's a glint to his eyes that gives away the smugness hiding behind his words.

"You should feel proud boys. They asked for you two specifically because you're the only sniper team for a hundred miles in any direction with the field experience to rival all of their regional operatives."

"That include her?" Tim picks up his packet in indication, pretty sure the meeting is over and more than ready to leave. He just wants to get this over with. He and Jake just got in the night before at two am and had been in the mountains for two full days before that. Sleep is trying desperately to reclaim him, but he'll do what he has to. He always does.

From her place on the computer screen, Agent Compton offered no more comfort than a cold tilt of the head.

"It had better."


	2. Slummin' in Paradise

Sorry this took so long to update, I literally forgot I had posted the prologue to this story on here lol But it's here now ^.^

**Chapter One: Slummin' in Paradise**

Friday April 24, 2009 Herat City, Afghanistan 1400 Hours

_I knew no other confirmation but what I found in meditation.  
__It gave me strength to face tomorrow but not to triumph over sorrow;  
__Strength to smile, to persevere but not the victory over fear.  
__Islands of quiet validation, in the ocean of determination.  
_- Marty Glass

There are much more pressing matters at hand than watching Adeela play with her dolls on the floor. Jillian should be checking phone records, browser histories, sifting through mail or drawers for evidence while she's alone in the Nejrabi house. But no matter what her brain screams, her body refuses to move. Lately, each moment here fidgets around inside of her anxiously with the knowledge that it might very well be her last. She's stayed too long as it is but…there's something about these people, something about their daughter in particular that is impossible to let go of. Or at least, painful.

So she sits very still and watches the way Adeela makes her dolls dance, gives them things to say and tries in vain to brush their hair into obedience. She feels like a birdwatcher, a child in a butterfly garden. Adeela is the blue-jay, the monarch, the stable home-life she will never fully possess.

"We're about to have tea Jilly," The blue-jay's tiny voice squeaks in its native Dari. "Come help Skipper drink hers."

Smiling faintly, the woman sitting near her kneels on the intricate Persian rug that covers the stone floor. The dolls are fashioned from cloth and yarn, dressed in the traditional garb of Afghani girls. Not the plain, color-coded _chadari_ that were enforced during the Taliban's reign, but rich and vivid Pashtun dresses decorated with bright beads and golden embroidery. Naturally, they're not your typical Barbie and Skipper playthings. But Adeela has seen enough Western commercials to assume that's what dolls are supposed to be called. Jillian can never decide if it's sweet or tragic.

Just as steaming hot, invisible tea is poured into her cup, the phone at her hip buzzes ardently. Kissing the top of Adeela's little head, she makes a promise to come right back and walks toward the back door, phone to her ear.

"Are you almost home?" Voice lowered, her eyes perform an automatic sweep of the buildings on either side of the Nejrabi's luxurious house. Well, luxurious by third-world standards anyway. In a second-story window to her left a servant is busy cleaning the windows.

"We're turning the last corner now. I'll meet you in back." Dr. Nejrabi's wife murmurs in rushed tones. Jill continues to squint around her under the unforgiving sun. Down from the mountains that stretch out a few miles from the cement wall that lines the back yard, sweeps a hot and vicious wind. The same wind that leaves Herat well below freezing at night nearly year round.

Trying to keep the conversation as short as possible, Jill shuts her phone and turns toward the house. There's no use waiting under the sun. Before she can turn fully around however, something catches her eye. Every muscle from the neck down freezes in place as her eyes scan the side of the building to her right. She isn't even sure what she saw, just that for a split second things had been out of place.

The wind brushes through bits of loose hair around her face. In the street, she can hear the Nejrabi's driver pulling into the garage. But she remains still, eyes narrowing at a window on the third story. The houses in this tiny, but affluent development are narrow, almost all of them going up two or three floors. From her many visits to this back yard, Jill remembers the curtains in those windows being drawn open. Today the majority are closed and one pair, high up in the farthest window of the third floor, seem to have rippled.

It wasn't much, a split-second's sway. But that's enough. Turning from the window, Jill takes a few steps out from under the shade to inspect the driveway next door. Inside she hears Adeela's mother and slightly older brother walk in, the tea party abruptly interrupted for grins and hugs. Out in the heat of the yard, the wind continues to whip around in Jillian's ears as she frowns up and down the street. Nothing out of place. Not one reason to be suspicious…except that damn curtain.

* * *

"She see you?" Jake's voice is low in his earpiece. Not sure why he's shaking his head, Tim's eyes fall closed and a deep breath expands his lungs. Back pressed against the wall, he tries to focus on what he saw and the very little he heard.

"I don't think so." She was meeting someone back there, most likely Dr. Hamid or his wife. He had to get pictures, at the very least a sound-bite. But he's almost positive this window has been compromised. If that curtain moves again, Agent Thomas will be over that cement wall before he can even ream the CIA out for screwing him over with such a bullshit assignment. Maybe…maybe if he moves to a different window on a different floor this can still work. He won't have time to clear it with anyone back at CP if he wants to get his intel, so he'll just have to haul ass downstairs and hope that whatever he gathers will make up for the lack of protocol.

Slipping off his boots, he grabs his scope and sprints down the stairs as lightly as humanly possible.

* * *

"I apologize for that," Samira ducks her head as she closes the back door and makes her way towards Jillian, "Naveed's appointment with his doctor went on far longer than I expected."

"Is he alright?" The girl beside her mumbles absently, still watching the house next door. Something is off…she can't put her finger on it but something in the air just shifted over there.

"He'll be fine…" Samira's own eyes are glancing suspiciously towards the building now, unsure of why Agent Thomas has become so preoccupied with it. Suddenly, Jill's eyes come flashing at her, brimming with the crackling fire that always sparks there when her suspicions get the best of her. More and more lately, that seems to be always.

"That house, does the Sadaji family still reside there?" She asks, fervent eyes not doing much to balance the worried tone tainting the native sounds of Dari spilling from her lips.

"Actually, their house has been put on the market. There hasn't been anyone over there for at least a week…Jillian, what is going"-

Laying a hand on her shoulder, Jill directs Samira back towards the house. She tries to breathe evenly, focuses as much power as she can on keeping her actions and speech casual. But an undercurrent of urgency is impossible to completely strip from her voice, or the fingertips that push Dr. Hamid's wife the slightest bit too hard.

"We have to get inside the house, now."

"Agent Thomas, please. If my children and I are in some sort of danger, I would appreciate"-

"I need for you to speak to me in English." Jill insists once the back door is shut behind them, though she feels guilty for it. The children aren't dumb, just because they can't understand the foreign language doesn't mean they don't understand the meaning of its presence in their home. Something's wrong and the grown-ups don't trust them to know. Again.

Sparing a glance to her son and daughter, Samira looks to Jillian and nods. The young woman before her begins to fix a scarf round her head, tucking thick strands of black into its swaths. Clearly this matter is so urgent she means to leave soon.

"I don't think that house is empty. I'm going to go over and look around. I shouldn't be long."

Another nod from Samira is all she needs before setting off. But just as her hand wraps around the garage door, Jill stops and turns to look back.

"Please do _not_, under any circumstances, let the children outside. Not until I get back." With that, she slips out.

* * *

Reaching a window on the second story that faces the mountains, Tim figures if he can just get this one open a little, he'll at least have their conversation on tape. But as he finally pulls a side back, just enough to peek into the back yard, his heart stops. They're gone. Whatever just happened upstairs was apparently enough to alert his target that something is up. And apparently, whatever she'd been planning on discussing with Dr. Nejrabi's wife is important enough that neither want to risk it being overheard.

Either way, he has to get out of there stat or this entire operation might cave in. And damned if he's going to screw up some silly little assignment from the CIA in the first twenty-four hours. Grabbing his gear, he starts on his way to the third floor again. He'll grab his boots, slip them back on and then high-tail it out of there as though he'd never come in the first place. But it's on the landing that his heart stops for the second time. On the street is a woman walking towards the house, dressed in Agent Thomas's _perahan tunban_, a much more liberal tunic and pant set than had been allowed under the Taliban. Even in his half-panicked state, Tim can't help thinking that even with the scarf covering her hair, that outfit would have gotten her stoned just eight years ago.

Cursing under his breath, he snaps off a rapid set of pictures, heart rate rising with each click. He's not even sure why he's doing it because this is _really_ not the time. But his hands seem to have a life of their own, even as his mind groans in frustration. Finally, his own fight or flight instincts begin to beat at his nervous system far too hard to be ignored. Everything inside of his body grinds out the same, steady, desperate plea: _Get out of there_. Tearing off down the stairs and around to the back door as quickly as his socked feet will take him, he can feel the sweat start to moisten his forehead and neck. He knows it's going to cost him later on down the line, leaving those boots there, especially with an agent as paranoid as Jillian obviously is snooping around. But if he's being forced to choose between the boots and his own neck, well that isn't really much of a choice.

With a hand hovering over the back door handle, Tim pauses just outside of the house, waiting to shut his door until it'll be masked by the sound of Jill shutting her own at the front. In the palm of his hand, he hits speed-dial number two without looking, praying Jake will show up _before_ she finds the boots.

* * *

Clue number one: The front door is open. Conditions in Afghanistan may not exactly be tip-top, but the realtors in communities such as these aren't stupid enough to leave doors unlocked.

'_A rookie Agent however,' _Jill muses to herself, slipping inside as slow as necessary to remain noiseless, _'Just might.'_

None of the furniture has been moved from the house. It's all there, exactly as it had been before the Sadaji family supposedly 'left'. Glancing around for a few moments of quiet apprehension, she finally remembers to shut the door, shaking her head a little at her own paranoia. What the hell had she even been waiting for anyw-

A frown knits her features together and her head turns instinctively towards the back. Had another door just closed? Sweeping the front open again, she glances around. Up the street. Down the street. Around the side of the house. Nothing.

God, the heat and stress must have started scrambling her brain like eggs. With a heavy sigh, she makes her way back inside and begins looking around again, suddenly feeling as though this is probably going to be completely pointless. But she didn't spent a year at the Farm earning her top secret, government clearance because she _wasn't_ thorough about listening to her gut instincts.

* * *

"Where the hell are your shoes?" Tim doesn't even remember the last time he was so relieved to hear Jake's chuckle.

"I had to leave them. She can't trace them back to me, they'll be fine." As he strips his gloves off and grabs the water his spotter hands him, he tries to convince himself that's true. Jake nearly stops the car out of shock.

"Wait- she's _in_ there? _Now_?"

Tim just nods, leaning forward to crank the air up. It's way too fucking hot out for the AC to have been shut off in that house. Leave it to the CIA to give the place a deep-cleaning an hour before his drop-off and _not_ turn the air on. Cheap bastards…

"Well, should we stop? Watch from the corner?"

A deep breath fills PFC Gutterson's lungs. That's really not a bad idea. If he loses her now, it may be hard to get a good handle on her later. But the Agency still has tabs on her. He hates to rely on them but if push comes to shove…

"She'll notice a car that wasn't there before. Especially if she hangs around here as much as they say she does." His hesitation is obvious, strung up in the words like Christmas lights at a redneck wedding. Even though losing sight of her now could cost them valuable intel, staying would put the entire mission in jeopardy. Knowing this will be next to impossible to explain at HQ, he shakes his head and motions down the street. "Let's just get back. I'll pick her trail back up tonight."

* * *

Clue number two: There's no dust. If no one is living here then who's coming around to clean house? It's possible that whatever realty agency is handling the sale has hired servants to keep the space presentable but…every inch is spotless. They would have had to come that morning and Jill's been right next door for three hours. No cars in the driveway, no voices, no groups of people period. Just that stupid, swaying curtain.

Sweeping the living room and kitchen, Jillian figures if she just checks the windows on every floor, she'll be able to relax. Or at least _sound_ relaxed when she heads back to the Nejrabi house. The second floor doesn't offer much. No dirt on the floors, no prints, or doors left open. Not even any clothes in the closets or drawers. Everything is clear. By the time half of floor number three has been cleared, she starts to feel a little silly again.

'_There's nothing here._' Her brain screams. The quiet is so thick it almost rings with its own heaviness. Again, no signs of life anywhere. Not so much as photo frame out of place. Maybe she really was just imagining that curtain moving. After all, she's been so stressed lately that every tiny movement in the corners of her eyes sets off the alarms in her nervous system. It's starting to make her miss those long gone internship days back in the mailroom at the Pentagon.

With a deep sigh, Jill's hand closes around the next door. By the layout she has in her head, the third window from the left should be where the ghost curtains hang. Instinctively, her eyes go there first and before she can even get one step inside, every muscle in her limbs goes rigid.

* * *

"You _left_. Your _boots_. On _site_? Knowing she was approaching the house? Knowing the front door was unlocked?" Agent Compton is absolutely livid, pacing back and forth across the satellite feed on the laptop. Even through his embarrassment, Tim can't help but study her desk. Perfect stacks of files, legal pads, print outs, and a neat little row of sticky notes lining the edge of her computer screen. Not that he needed his reconnaissance training for this but clearly the woman was anal retentive to a fault. For a split-second, he felt a smidge of pity for Agent Thomas. No one deserved such a boss, not even someone from the CIA.

"We managed to get some decent intel though." Jake chances, pulling up the files he's just uploaded from Tim's camera. "A few good pictures, and some audio. We're still transcribing the dialogue, but-"

"Dialogue?" Agent Compton's hard blue eyes bore into them both and Tim is sure at the moment that, were she been capable of jumping through the screen and devouring him, no sniper's bullet would stop her. "I've had my intelligence officers going over that tape gentlemen, I assure you there is no dialogue to speak of. Just light traffic and wind."

"The pictures though, are excellent. Better than anything we've had to work with so far." Jake insists, "If we can get these out to check points through the area, then we might be able to"-

"She's been working in the area for years, everyone we work with knows what she looks like."

"Right, but"-

"This isn't America's Next Top Model! I'm not trying to put together a _portfolio_ for her." As she takes in a deep, shuddering breath and digs her nails into the back of a chair, Tim decides firmly that he was wrong about her potential attractiveness. This woman is just plain scary. "Look, get some food. Change your clothes and _find_ her. I want a report by the end of the day…one with words this time?"

"Yes, m'am." Addressing her at the same time, neither man dares to exchange a glance with the other until the feed has been cut off.

* * *

Clue number three: The boots.

Men's. Size 11. Black. Civilian.

Except there is _no way _they actually belong to one. Not sitting right next to the window that she came to inspect in the first place. Man, this is one green rookie. No wonder the Agency has them tailing one of their own, the Taliban would be roasting their intestines by now.

In any case, this is the deal clincher. Grabbing the shoes, Jillian quietly but swiftly makes her way back, stopping only once to check the street before heading out. Nothing strange or out of the ordinary. Not so much as a misplaced license plate. Just the pounding heat, restless wind. Going around to the garage, Jill leaves the shoes on its cement floor before venturing into the kitchen. Within seconds Adeela has attached herself to the older girl's leg.

"Are we in danger?" Her high-pitched little voice mumbles. Forcing a soft smile, Jill leans down to take the small girl into her arms. She's so small that the weight is hardly even there, as though her bones are hollow in likeness to a bird's. Still, it is something Jillian misses deeply when she leaves.

"No," She assures the five-year-old, tucking a few strands of thick hair behind Adeela's delicate ears. "No _del bandam_, everything's perfectly fine. I just checked. Can you do me a favor though? It's important."

Her dark lashes come together as she nods confidently and Jill's smile grows in sincere. She adores that pure, all-encompassing desire to do good. Prays a hundred times every day that it will never have to be compromised.

"Can you go set your dolls up down the hall. We have a tea party to finish." Grinning, Adeela wriggles free and sprints to the living room, trying to grab everything at once. Smirking at her graceless enthusiasm, Jill calls out, "Remember, what's rule number one?"

"No one sits by the windows!" Adeela's tiny voice reverberates back to the kitchen as she careens down the hall. Even Samira can't help but smile, just a little. But it isn't long before both women are facing each other as though about to dig a grave.

"The door was unlocked. I found a pair of boots." Jill mumbles in English, once sure that Samira's daughter is out of range.

"What does that mean?" She knows full well what it means, it's obvious in the way her hushed voice comes out the slightest bit uneven. The way her hand curls into a defensive fist at her side. But Agent Thomas is the operative here, nothing is real until she says it out loud.

"I'm not one-hundred percent sure," Taking a step forward, Jill lowers her voice yet another octave. "But I scanned the entire house, those were the only items of clothing I found. They're not any kind of official military, and I'm not crazy enough to even think they might be civilian."

Something in Samira's eyes ignites. Animalistic fear. Burning rage. Jill figures it's something in-between and knows immediately from that look alone where her mind immediately went.

"Do you…do you think…"

"No," Agent Thomas quickly shakes her head, laying a hand on Mrs. Nejrabi's arm. "I really don't think it's them. The shoes are made by Nike, the Taliban's entire campaign is against the spread of corporate America here in their homelands. The last thing they'd want to do is contribute to that…I think it might be the Agency."

The fearful edge in Samira's features softens and she takes a step away from Jill. Not very far, just enough to force an end to their skin contact.

"But…the CIA already has you. What good would another agent over our shoulders do? What do they want with us?" She sounds almost angry. Indignant. Offended. Jill can't say she blames her. Except Samira is completely missing the big picture.

"Not you. Me."


	3. Trigger and Pull

**Chapter Two: Trigger and Pull**

_Not the peace of a cease-fire  
__not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,  
__but rather as in the heart when the excitement is over  
__and you can talk only about a great weariness.  
__I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult.  
__A little rest for the wounds - who speaks of healing?  
__And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation  
__to the next, as in a relay race: the baton never falls.  
_'wild peace' by Yehuda Amichai

Tim's not sure how he feels about this. It's not as though he's never watched someone in their own private space before. For Christ's sake, that's his _job_. But she looks as tired as he feels, seems to need some time completely alone to turn out the lights and bury her head. To stop worrying, even if it's just for ten minutes. And invading that, denying her of it, just feels wrong.

But it's either this air conditioned, wi-fi connected, stay-in-the-shower-as-long-as-you-like hotel room next door to her own or back to the scorpion infested, you-won't-ever-get-that-sand-out-of-there oven that lays beyond the city walls. Decisions, decisions. So he sits in his chair…swings back and forth…taps his long fingers on the arm rests…and watches.

A smirk finds his face when she finally walks in and immediately drops her bag to inspect every inch of space for hidden bugs or cameras. Painting frames. Windows. Air vents. The ceiling fan. Even the smoke alarm. But her mistake is to look inside of its wiring and ventilation slits. Tim chuckles to himself then, because for a moment she literally has the damn thing in her hands. It's hiding in the little red light. But this camera is brand new, they wouldn't have had it around during her training at the Farm so she can't really be blamed. Tim's not stupid, he knows she's dangerous. But he can't help finding all this vain determination kind of cute. Like watching a puppy chase its own tail.

Once satisfied. Jill goes into the bathroom with a small bundle of laundry. She takes her time. Showers, stares at herself in the mirror, sobs hysterically. Whatever CIA agents do when off duty. After about twenty-five minutes, Tim can feel himself losing focus. He takes a sip of water. Runs his hands over his face. Shifts positions in the chair. Nothing is helping.

So he resorts back to his training. He starts making up stories.

* * *

Jill hates baths. She doesn't really believe in them. So you what, sit around in your own dirt and sweat and dead skin? Pointless. But today she decides to swallow her pride and give it a go. She just wants to lay down in something cold, stare at the ceiling and try with everything inside of her not to think.

'_Infinite nothingness.' _Her eyes close as she tries to find it. _'Meditation. Everything blank. Perfectly still.' _

It works…for about ten seconds. Her brain doesn't have the ability to be at peace. That's the reason the Agency chose her, because her mind never stops working. Most of the time that's a gift, one that keeps her alive and two steps ahead. But when she's alone trying to recharge her batteries it's just aggravating and exhausting.

Getting lost in the sound of the bathroom fan, she gives in and allows whatever fleeting thoughts that want her to have their way. The first thing that surfaces is Adeela. It always is and her heart always aches the same way. Maybe it's narcissism, because looking at her is like a time warp back to Jillian's own 1988. The year she turned six. The year her father went back to Iran in an attempt to find his mother and get her out. The year he never came home.

A small, secret part of her firmly believes the Nejrabi family are the reason she was meant to become an Agent. To pass on the same sanctuary that was given to her own family during the Iran hostage crisis. And maybe if she can save Adeela, she can somehow rectify all of the havoc that was wreaked on her. It'll be interesting to see if, once this all over, her passion for working with the CIA will remain. Of course, in order for any of that to happen, Dr. Nejrabi would first have to actually _agree_ to accept protection.

The very thought makes Jill grit her teeth, sit up and start draining the water. She can't just sit and pal around with rage like this, she has to be doing something constructive or it'll drive her insane. But even as the shower head sprays cool water on her skin and the shampoo begins to work into a lather through her hair, the frustration remains.

What is _wrong _with him? Doesn't he care that he's putting his entire family in danger? Doesn't he realize that the Taliban are the bad guys? You can't go around making deals with the devil and expect no consequences. That's just dumb. And crazy. And inconsiderate. She could go on, but her fingers are starting to scrub the skin of her head raw.

Taking a deep breath she tries to let it go again. Concentrates on the feeling of moist air in her lungs. The tension in her muscles. The water on her lips, dry with heat. Anything but the poisonous resentment she's been carrying around for twenty years now.

* * *

The best way to draw inspiration for stories, Tim has found, is to pool from all of the things he'd most like to be doing at that moment. Things he actually gives a shit about. The first thing that comes to mind, naturally, are the cool and soft sheets tucked neatly across the mattress behind him. He wants sleep. Deep and undisturbed sleep for days upon days. Except this is neither a story, nor very useful as he's trying to keep awake.

Second on the list? Home. It's always home. Endless valleys painted in every hue of blue or green. Pure white clouds lazily tracing their paths through the wind. Paved streets on which cars never explode, gunfire is never exchanged. American flags offer a friendly wave everywhere he ventures. The wooden, white-washed front porch of his family's home stays perfectly reliable and welcoming, as though time can't touch it. The peaceful ambiance and harmonious beauty of Asheville, North Carolina. Just letting the images of all he knows there sink in is enough to pique his interests.

He double clicks the file on his computer that holds Jillian's pictures, freshly updated with those he took that afternoon. He studies her face. The way she carries herself when she walks. Begins to wonder if she has ever tasted clouds while hiking up a mountain trail. Rolled the windows down on a country lane and smiled at the sun soaked elm trees. Spent the afternoon trying to catch bass in a backwoods lake before giving up and jumping in to cool off. He highly doubts she's done any of the above. In fact the thought of her casting a line in that _burqa _amuses Tim to the point of laughter. Low and under his breath, but laughter all the same. And that's rare in the field.

* * *

After a day spent sweltering under layer after layer of cotton and wool, all Jillian wants from the world is the feeling of denim wrapped securely around her thighs, stretching taughtly from hip to hip. Once on, they're pure heaven. For a while she just stands there staring at herself in the mirror. It isn't so much her own body that she finds fascinating, just the Westernization that suddenly owns everything in her vision. The décor of the bathroom, the Guess jeans on her legs, the Victoria's Secret bra around her chest. Plugging in her blow-dryer is stranger still and when her hair is finally free of moisture she can only continue to stare.

All day the dark tresses stay wrapped away, curling and frizzing under sweat that gathers along her neck. It is wild and uncouth but necessary because it is the way of things here. Seeing it like this now, hanging clean and smooth and beautiful, is so odd. Straight and long seems to change everything. She could no longer easily pass for an Afghani girl. Anyone would assume she just walked out of the United Arab Emirates or possibly London. Maybe even New York. Definitely not Heart City. And certainly never the home of a local politician who was allowing local tribesmen to deal in narcotics for the benefit of terrorism.

According to the fit of her jeans, the lacy push-up, the perfect hair and pretty face, she shouldn't even know what any of that means. Anyone would assume her head is filled with lipstick and Dior, gossip magazines and rich bachelors. No one would ever guess top secret intelligence files or _Darsi_ or paralyzing anxiety. No one would ever guess the truth. And that is a big reason why they picked her.

Sometimes, times like this, she stares at herself and she wonders if there were other people at the Farm who were better than her. People who never got called up because their appearance couldn't toy with people's emotions the way hers can. If she's just a pawn in the game. But the truth is, everyone at the Agency is a pawn. Jill knows that, she knows it's nothing to take personal. Pushing the hair away from her face, she flicks the bathroom light off on her way out.

For a moment she slumps down onto the foot of her mattress, elbows digging into her thighs as she leans forward and rubs at the fatigue that stress has ground into every pore. She should probably be putting together an intel report and sending it off. At the very least, calling her handler to set up an appointment for that night or the next morning. But she can't function anymore. She's hit her limit and her brain has already clocked out.

Figuring she might as well join the movement, Jill falls onto her back and sighs slowly, savoring the breath that expands her lungs. She stretches her arms above her head, fingertips playing gently with the soft ends of hair they find. For a few seconds, her eyes try to watch the ceiling fan, its blades circling around…and around…and around. But soon even their gentle rhythm is putting her to sleep. Her last conscious thought is a fleeting appreciation for how incredibly good the cool air feels as it licks her bare skin.

* * *

Suddenly for the first time since his last visit home, Tim loses control of his senses. The pulse in his veins quickens, the beat of his heart becomes the slightest bit more demanding. His lungs want more air than the slow, trained-for-silence breaths of a sniper can provide. It's been eight months since the last time he got any action unrelated to a tour of duty. Eight, long, flatline months during which he's forced his libido to essentially hide under the trap door of his conscious mind. He doesn't talk about sex, he doesn't look at pictures of it or even think about it. He simply trains himself to ignore it. The first month or two was rough, but overall it's worked out …until now.

Seeing her stretched back across the bed like that…he doesn't even have time to stop the images from bursting into life behind his eyes before it's too late. His hands are on the warm, firm skin of her waist and hips. His lips are taking their time tasting the crest of her ribcage, the dip of her abdomen as she arches her back, fingers combing through his hair, a sigh escaping her lips. The scent of soap and fabric softened sheets and female skin invades his nose, all of the things he misses coming together to trigger an acute dizziness.

Taking a deep breath, Tim shuts his eyes. He gets up and walks away from the computer screen. Cold hands run over his face, pressing hard against his cheekbones and eyelids. Pulling and pushing with the frustration pulsing in his blood vessels. He can't do this. _He_ _can't_. _Do_ _this_. For fuck's sake, this isn't the boy scouts.

Hands on his hips, he turns to glare out the window. Expecting to see bright sunlight, his eyes are confused to find a deep darkness staring back. The kind only a third-world country after sunset can claim. The watch on his wrist reads 10:15pm. Had he really been sitting and staring at that little computer screen for two hours already? Had it even felt like that long?

With a heavy sigh, tired eyes glancing back toward the desk and shoulders hunched forward, he realizes that the answer is yes. Forcing himself to sit down again, he adjusts his seat, then his headphones and finally stretches for a solid minute or two. Anything to avoid looking at the live feed of Jillian's room. Specifically her bed. Specifically her half-naked body laying _on _the bed. Cracking his knuckles, he pulls his arms across his chest and turns one way then the other in the chair.

'_I can do this. I'm trained to do this. I'm here because I'm the best.' _His pep talk is working, so he builds on it. _'Forget her. You've had way better than her. She's just some shit-outta-luck agent anyway. Who cares. You're an Army Ranger trained Sniper. Do your job.' _

Just as he's starting to believe himself, he notices movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking back at the screen all he sees is a small ball tucked neatly under the covers.

* * *

Saturday April 25, 2009 Herat City, Afghanistan 1100 Hours

The streets are almost a culture shock of life and searing heat after the cool, dark quiet of Jill's hotel room. She puts it to the back of her mind how badly she would have preferred to stay wrapped up in the bed sheets that morning. The walls of her room throbbing with a quiet solitude that she's learned to appreciate and hold close whenever possible. Out here there's no such thing as quiet or solitude.

People are packed tightly throughout the market street, not at all helping to alleviate the feeling of cooking inside an oven that envelops anyone who dares to step outside. The odor of dead animal carcasses being eaten alive by flies is only slightly lessened by all the dried spices set out for sale. Vendors call out to the crowd, offering everything from kebobs to jewelry. Jill's stomach jerks painfully with hunger, but there's too much nervous energy in her system for her to care. To be honest, she can't remember the last time she felt otherwise.

What there is to be nervous about, she can't quite put her finger on. The Agency called that morning, informing her that they'd set up a meeting with her handler (because, they had added cheerfully, she'd failed to do so). She had been ordered to meet Badria in the backroom of a popular restaurant downtown to go over the details of her latest assignment. The Nejrabi's were no longer her concern. She was to move on and cease all contact with the family starting immediately. Despite her protests, her pleas for more time, Bardia had insisted that the Agency would take care of it. That was exactly what Jillian was worried about.

Now all she knows is this feeling she can't shake. This worry. Something…something's off.

Reason tries to convince her it's just fear at the thought of abandoning the Nejrabi family to chance. But everything beyond reason knows there's more to it. Trying to keep a handle on her breathing, she remembers finding those boots yesterday. Remembers their weight in her hands. The way the curtain had fluttered, so discretely she'd almost missed it completely. Most of all she remembers the way her heart had stopped.

It takes all of her self-control not to run as the realization that this feeling mirrors yesterday's washes over her. Maybe it should have been obvious all along, but either way, it sure is now. She's not just being watched from afar, she's being followed in broad daylight.

* * *

According to his intel, they're testing her today. Setting her up. If she's a good little girl, he'll be set free. If she fucks up, he gets the green light. No matter how comforting the feeling of strapping handguns to his waist and ankles is, it doesn't make up for how wrong this feels. From what he can tell, Agent Thomas isn't doing anything wrong.

'_Like you even know.' _Everything he learned in training beats him over the head that morning in his hotel room. _'That's just the lacy bra she was wearing last night talking. You did not get where you are by listening to lacy bras.' _Clicking his safety into place, he nods to himself and heads out. It's hotter than hell out as usual, but it's good to have Jake by his side again. They'll be posing as journalists from National Geographic as they traverse the market. Tim figures the Agency could have come up with something a little more badass than Nat Geo, but whatever. At least the badges are cool.

"Why am I always the camera guy?" Jake grumbles, trying to figure out how the black piece of digital junk CP gave him even works.

"Maybe 'cause I'm the one who's gotta run." Tim shrugs absently from behind his shades, making his way through the heavily crowded streets of downtown. She was supposed to be meeting her handler in this market. Three shops down from the café they finally stop to sit in, she'll be strolling out at any minute from the left side of the street. She'll make her decision and Tim will know his orders. Whether he's cut loose or suddenly marked with blood on his hands, he'll be facing an obligation. The odd part is, he's starting to wonder which would be worse. Chasing her…or forever walking away.

Before he can properly weigh either option, Jake lightly smacks his arm. Finally having gotten the hang of his camera as they sat, Tim's spotter had been 'taking pictures' of the crowd for the past fifteen minutes, using his cover to get a lay of the land. So far, he'd found an exit route and a few good places from which they could get quick, workable vantage points. Now, he's found Jill.

"Spread out. Take the right side of the street, stay parallel to her." Tim mumbles as they duck out, ignoring the stares they get from passers-by. Tall, broad-shouldered blonde men in western clothes don't exactly blend in here. But no one's trying to win a popularity contest today.

"You sure you wanna split up on foot?" Jake's hesitating. It's his job to do so, but his partner really fucking wishes he wouldn't right now.

"Don't lose her." He nods curtly, not even bothering to look Jake in the eyes as he lets the current of the crowd carry him downstream. The sounds of Dari and Pashto, Afghanistan's native languages, fill up his ears. The noises, smells and colors of the market are overwhelming. But his focus on Jill never waivers. Just looking at her acts like a shield against all the other distractions. That's never happened with a target before, and for a few seconds there's one distraction she can't keep out. His own obsessive curiosity.

* * *

Back at the Farm, if you can't shake a tail, you don't pass basic training. This one concept is drilled into you like nothing else. But they never taught Jill what to do if she thinks _The_ _Agency _is following her. That seems to change everything, throwing her almost completely off kilter for just a handful of moments. She's suddenly acutely aware of how difficult it is to move quickly in this sea of people. How hard the sun is making her sweat. How strong the beat of her pulse is in her veins, her chest, her ears. The fear takes such a terrible hold, she nearly loses the battle with her mind to remember those days back in training. To recall all of the answers to tests she had mastered like a pro.

1. Retrace your steps. Make a full circle. Be sure that the threat is real.

Taking a deep breath, she follows the handbook that's inscribed itself on the walls of her skull, watching the crowds from the sides of her sunglasses. The lenses are reflective on the outer edges of the insides. It's a good trick the CIA picked up from foreign nationals in their Cold War days and Jill is grateful for it now. Once around through the market. Around the block. Back through the market. Inside a shop. Back out. She screws around aimlessly for nearly an hour before catching him. And it all seems rather obvious once she does.

2. Note identifying characteristics.

This can be difficult in the Middle East, where appearances were kept so strictly uniform and secretive. But this man hardly blends in. Blonde hair peeking out of his baseball cap. Khaki pants. A full mouth. No facial hair. The palest skin she's seen in a long time. He looks relatively young. Late twenties, no older than thirty. There's an official looking lanyard around his neck but she's too far away to make it out.

3. Don't turn around.

It's hard to fight this instinct, even after all of her training. Every other second is teeming with the urge to look over her shoulder. If she were in a first or second-world country this would be easier, she could use shop windows to track his movements. But here all she has are these damn sunglasses and her own instincts. Working hard to keep her breathing steady, she veers off toward the business district.

4. Get on a crowded bus or subway, then quickly exit a rear door if the pursuer boards.

So that's her plan. But he's too close for the bus strategy. She doesn't have time to sit at the stop for fifteen minutes (or more, public transport here is never reliable). But she'll be able to make it to a cab before he can. Driving around, trying to lose him before eventually heading to the Nejrabi house is her only viable option at this point. From there she'll have to try to figure out if this plan she's been making up as she goes along has any kind of escape route.

* * *

"Tim, where the fuck did you go?" He barely notices Jake's voice hissing in his ear as he tries to keep up with Agent Thomas. But it's not entirely his fault, this is hard. He'd not used to pursuing a target on foot and she knows these streets far better than he does. Hell, he only dropped in yesterday.

"She's draggin' me further downtown. I think she's gunna try and head back to the Nejrabi's." Tim mumbles as discreetly as he can, figuring if his mic doesn't pick it up he doesn't have time to worry about it now. He lost her once, he can't go back to CP having done it a second time. He doesn't know where this drive comes from. He has no idea why, once having started a mission, he can't consider backing down an option. But he just can't. Even when he knows things are getting way out of hand.

"What? _Now_? Come on man, her hotel isn't far from there. She's probably just headed"-

"Jake, I got it." Tim cuts him short, eyes fixed on Jill again as she crosses the street. He's impressed. She hasn't looked back once. Most operative targets, no matter how well trained, always look back at least once. Cursing under his breath as she slips into a cab, he jogs across the street and starts trying to hail a cab of his own. He's luckier than she had been. Every taxi driver in town wants the rich, white guy. Laying a wad of cash into the front seat, he tells the cabby to follow Jill's car.

As the city passes on either side of them, Tim is finally able to breathe a little. He feels dizzy in the air conditioned back seat, is suddenly aware of the sweat soaking his clothes. The adrenaline that runs through his system makes everything feel as though it's moving too slow around him. Can't this taxi go any faster?

Suddenly, his phone vibrates. Frowning, he struggles to simultaneously keep his eye on the road and check the i.d. at the same time. Every glance down feels like a mistake and his back teeth grind together when he sees it's just Jake.

'Should I follow you?' Is all it says. At this Tim can't even be mad. The kid's just trying to do his job, make sure this CIA bullshit has its bases covered.

'Hang back. I'll call you if I need you.' He replies, before slipping the phone in his pocket. He knows the men back at Base have a tracker on it, and that their systems have his info linked to the CIA. It's only a matter of time before Compton is on his ass too. And if he's right, if Jill is headed back to the Nejrabi house… He already knows exactly what she's going to say.

* * *

She has the driver to circle the city three or four times, using different routes that backtrack one another. He keeps shooting her dirty looks every time she changes her directions, but as long as she whips out more cash, he doesn't ask questions.

It doesn't matter how long she stays in the back seat of that car, her heart rate is barely under control. She's terrified. Clearly it's the CIA following her. Clearly they only want one thing. What the fuck is she supposed to do? She can't go to the Embassy, that's run by the State Department, the same Department that runs The Agency. She can't call Badria, she herself is an informant. Who do you turn to when everyone is owned by the enemy. When the people who hired you, the only family you've been able to dedicate your life to for the past eight years, suddenly _are _the enemy.

But Jill knows already where she's going. She knew the minute need for sanctuary became evident. It's probably going to cost her the breath in her lungs. But it's the only place she has left.

* * *

This bitch knows what she's doing. But she doesn't realize who she's dealing with. He doesn't care how many false exits she takes, or what kind of tactics she's going to use to try and wear him down, he isn't giving up. He'll pursue her all fucking week if he has to. But he's going to win.

Finally, her taxi pulls into the development where the Nejrabi home sits. Tim's nerves dig their claws into his spine. All at once he's thrilled and resistant. This is that moment he's come to know so well. The handful of seconds that usually makes every sacrifice worth it. But even as his intuition sparks, even as the hairs across the back of his neck begin to prick and stand on end knowing what's coming next…he nearly vomits.

He can't shoot her. He can't end her life. Not now. Not yet. There is no plan for what he's going to do instead. No justification for how his own stupid hesitation is going to help further national security. But he won't rest until he gets close enough to hear her account of things. As he gets out of the car to pursue her down the street on foot, a clear message comes through his earpiece from Agent Compton herself.

"Tim, we're picking up your coordinates now. Good work. You have the green light to take her out."

Without a second thought, he rips the earpiece and mic out, tossing them into the bushes of someone else's home. And then he starts jogging toward Agent Thomas.


End file.
